


the carcass of a tree

by ThomasTheMemeEngine



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, NO ONE SUFFERS I PROMISE, excessive talks about mortality because i'm emo apparently, i gave jaskier the character trait "loses things easily" for no reason at all LOL, it's sad but it's also happy hooray!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26781958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThomasTheMemeEngine/pseuds/ThomasTheMemeEngine
Summary: Nobody forced Geralt to humor the bard, go along with his whims — yet, he couldn't bring himself not to. His clever ears swiftly picked up the sound of Jaskier shuffling with unrest. That finally inspired him to turn his head and face the man. He was too young to be old and too old to be young. The vulnerability of it was gut-wrenching. Vesemir had adviced him against becoming infatuated with something death could touch. The lark smirked, unaware of his mortality.______Two lovers wish they weren't running out of time.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 59





	the carcass of a tree

**Author's Note:**

> i ran out of weed and got bored so here we go ladies and gentlemen and friends beyond the binary, fasten ur fuckin seatbelts. Also i stole a line from tua so congrats if u find it hehe

"I think I fancy you.", Jaskier admitted with the most _shit-eating grin_. His voice was laced with the same uparalleled delight that he whistled his tunes with.

Geralt barely rewarded him with a glance. He was focused on the way the grass felt beneath his back and how it stuck out between his fingers. Each blade trembled purposefully, conducted by the wind. He wasn't used to the misplaced sense of youth that overcame him when Jaskier declared that he wished to lie down and stare at the sky with his witcher. Nobody forced Geralt to humor the bard, go along with his whims — yet, he couldn't bring himself not to. His clever ears swiftly picked up the sound of Jaskier shuffling with unrest. That finally inspired him to turn his head and face the man. He was too young to be old and too old to be young. The vulnerability of it was gut-wrenching. Vesemir had adviced him against becoming infatuated with something death could touch. The lark smirked, unaware of his mortality.

"Can you believe it? The most renounced and striking bard on this side of the continent... doting on a common monster hunter. Imagine the outrage!"

Geralt grinned to the point where his fangs were poking out. "I didn't know Valdo Marx was carrying a torch for me. I am shocked."

Jaskier scrunched up his face in disgust and was met with a hearty chuckle. Bullying him was a little too easy. He was spirited, at all times. Geralt found it odd. He had told him so, too, to which Jaskier had replied with a cheery ' _Passion gets the blood pumping!'_ And it did, for him, apparently. Geralt suspected that his own blood was acting on a mechanical survival instinct.

Jaskier shut his eyes and theatrically threw his head back. He flattened a couple of daisies in the process. No one would mourn these flowers. "Your foul mouth has once again uttered the most despicable nonsense! I am _wounded,_ gravely."

Geralt's grin grew wider. "Good."

And, needless to say: Jaskier's grimace deepend. He cracked one eye open to glare at him, affronted. "This is the part where you apologize."

And Geralt scoffed but obliged because, _god dammit_ , he's become soft. Why else would he be frolicking with an idiotic poet?  
He pushed himself onto his elbows. The bard decided to look at him with both eyes, now, increasingly wary. Then, the wariness melted into soft adoration when Geralt took Jaskier's face into his hand and absent-mindedly traced the man's cheekbone with his thumb. In moments like these, Geralt's body moved on its own. The culprit, he figured, was something akin to _helplessness_ — or surrender, if you will, to his unwanted fondness.

For lack of a better word, Geralt gave a disgruntled " _Hm_ ".

Jaskier smiled at that. "Don't _hm_ me. That's not an apology."

"I will _hm_ you as much as I damn please, bard."

Jaskier was about to berate him on his inarticulacy but was cut off with an urgent kiss to the lips. Ironically enough, he now was the one _unable to express his thoughts_ and simply yelped in delight.

And, Melitele have mercy, Geralt needed this to stop. He — the big, bad wolf of Kaer Morhen — was scared of it. Terrified, even. The _L-Word_. It crept up on him. He could feel it, in the way they held each other at night or in Jaskier's many, many failed attempts at spoiling the witcher by using his extra coin buy him better ale or a softer bed but Geralt, he... he persistantly declined. Couldn't bear the thought of someone as _good_ as Jaskier falling for someone as _bad_ as him.

People fell in love and people fell for _tricks_.

Claiming a mortal man, exposing him to the dangers of The Path just wasn't right. Geralt hated it. He wished for Jaskier to grow old and have kids that would inherit their father's kind, blue eyes and a fraction of his talent.

But Geralt was a selfish man — unfamiliar with _want_ but struggling with _desire_. The unseen force that held his bones together, that moved his limbs.

He couldn't help desiring Jaskier's pleasant scent, his challenging gaze, his leisurely devotion. The man in question, as if he knew of Geralt's misery, chuckled cruelly against his lips and whether he was showing pride or bashfulness remained unclear.

* * *

But, suddenly, it came to an end — halfway through, like a song that stops when the string of a lute _snaps_.

But it didn't...

It didn't have to be _so soon_...

It...

Jaskier's gaze dropped to his stomach in disbelief — to the claw which had _pierced_ it. So horrible. So _soon_. The wound was violently oozing blood. So much blood. The very thing that was keeping him alive exited his body with reckless abandon. A cruel joke, really. It _had_ to be a joke... Or...? Was he...?

The creature retracted its long, sharp limb with icy indifference. The all-consuming pain knocked the air out of Jaskier's lungs. His body was aflame.

The kikimora was gifted, in a way, with the blissful incapability to grasp the importance of life or death. It hasn't attacked him out of wickedness, _it has attacked him because it was in its very nature_. The thing simply couldn't fathom how cruel it was to die. Jaskier briefly wished that he, too, didn't have to _know_. He didn't want to... It was too...

He fell on his back, uselessly clutching at is stomach as if he could stop the bleeding with childlike peristence. Ragged breathing, resentful tears; he clung to his life, desperate to ward off the unspeakable.

_But was it already too late?_

Minutes passed as his body grew weak.

All of a sudden, the ground shook — persumably, as the monster's lifeless body collapsed under its weight. Geralt had killed it, of course. He always came out on top. In Jaskier's direct line of sight were countless trampled chrysanthemums.

He could hardly bring himself to care.

No one would mourn these flowers.

_But who would mourn him?_

He was so tired. So very tired. The bard weakly struggled to keep his eyes open, against what was pulling at his consciousness. The unspeakable.

This was it.

_This was it._

The world, once crisp and beautiful to its beholder... was reduced to a single, pointless blur. Things became trivial. His palm, soaked in blood, was long forgotten. So was the pain. It was...

" _No_ , no, no, no, no, no..."

And a string of curses.

Jaskier faintly smiled at the familiar feeling of being scooped up in Geralt's arms. But _never in his life_ were his hands this shaky when they lunged for him. This very thought caused a pang of guilt in his chest. Jaskier managed to lift his head, get one last good look at his witcher before giving himself over to... Before letting go and...

A tear — and then another one — landed on his face.

Jaskier let out a tiny laugh. "Don't cry, you, silly witcher... It doesn't suit you...", he murmured. The calmness of his voice did nothing to soothe the man. Geralt held him like he was of _value_ and meaningful as the sun, the moon and the stars. And — as one meekly would before a celestial body — he trembled like a leaf. Meanwhile, Jaskier's mind was too clouded to even notice anything other than the muted warmth he was surrounded by.

The unspeakable extended a single, cruel hand towards the bard.

This was it.

" _Don't... Please don't..._ "

But Geralt's pleas went unheard as they so often did when he lost something he so fiercly adored. A shuddering breath escaped him when Jaskier's eyes fell shut with horrible finality. "Jaskier, please... I'm begging you... _Please, wake up..._ "

Vesemir's words echoed through Geralt's head like distorted screams.

* * *

Jaskier jolted awake with a starteled gasp or something akin to the first breath of a nearly-drowned man.

He blinked once or twice before scanning his surroundings in a frantic manner.

A ceiling. A bed. Coarse sheets. Two pillows. Sunlight. Empty plates. A scrunched up piece of paper with his witcher's chicken scratch handwriting on the bedside table. " _Dola. 300_ _crowns"_. Geralt was sitting by the door, sharpening his swords with level-headed precision _like he's done it a million times before,_ but now it seemed... almost unnatural. Even Jaskier's own, rapid heartbeat was foreign. The damp, sweaty hair that clung to his forehead felt _wrong_. Each inhale, an unwarrented claim.

_Why?_

His hand instinctively wandered to his stomach, _shielding a wound that was not there_. He shuddered deeply as his mind revisited an awful scene. _Pain. Blood. Nothingness._ Jaskier clutched at the blanket while gathering the strength to address his terrible fear.

"Geralt? I died, didn't I?"

The witcher hesitantly set his sword aside. "Bad dream?"

That was when Jaskier began to sob.

* * *

Bad dream. It had merely been a bad dream.  
Somehow, Jaskier couldn't stomach it.

He had replayed the occurrance at least a million times in his head by now and found that it lacked any dream-like qualities. Even the scariest nightmares have never drilled any actual pain in his body, left him unsettled for _days_. And the chain of events was not impausible, too: Geralt had left the inn they currently inhabited to wipe out a group of kikimores. Jaskier, as usual, trailed behind without Geralt's knowledge to document his heroics. _Had it been just that._ But something went terribly wrong. Either he'd somehow drawn attention to himself or Geralt has brought the wrong potions to the fight and couldn't match their strength; about that part, admittedly, he was a bit uncertain _but the result was nonetheless the same_. He'd died.

Jaskier had never been so sure about anything in his life... but it was his word against Geralt's.

Even days later, he was still trying to wrap his head around the weirdness of it all as he sipped at his subpar wine. He was too distraught to notice that Geralt, who was sitting across from him at the table, had slipped something into the palm of his hand. After an embarrassingly long time, he finally acknowledged the little, velvety bag between his fingers and brought it closer to his face. Jaskier loosened the strings that held the opening together and a richly embellished ring fell out. He inspected the craftsmanship with a mixture of amazement and sheer surprise. A smile found its way to his lips, which rivaled the prominent glow of the ring's blue jewel.

Geralt watched Jaskier fawn over it, visibly contented at his bard's giddiness.

(His joy always seemed watered down to other people which Jaskier _strongly_ disagreed with.)

"My darling witcher!", he cooed. "Isn't that just gorgeous? My, my. Where'd you get it? Please tell me! I simply _must_ know!" Jaskier wiggled his eyebrows expectantly. "You didn't _kill_ for it, did you? But if so, I demand to hear of all the, oh, fightening details!"

Geralt sheepishly shrugged and reached for his ale. "Not _kill_ , but... Technically, I stole it."

Nothing was quite like Jaskier's evil cackling when he caught his noble, righteous companion doing something morally ambigious, let alone _illegal_.

(He was still dropping hints that his sworn enemy Valdo Marx has _overstayed his welcome in the land of the living_ , but Geralt wouldn't bulge.)

"Had a job this morning. Archespores have grown in the town center. I did some merchant a favor by destroying them.", Geralt continued. "He paid me, of course. That, I have no issue with. He was just..." A sigh. "He wasn't a good man, Jaskier. He mistreated his stallion. That poor thing..."

Jaskier reassuringly carressed the back of Geralt's hand. Those hands weren't made for killing, _no_ , they were made for petting horses.

"Well, I _freed_ it. But before I did, I grabbed a fistful of whatever was in his satchel. There was some coin, and... this ring. I thought, it'd suit you."

Jaskier was smugly twisting the ring in his hand before letting it slip onto his index finger. "How could it possibly not?" He took Geralt's hand in his and laced their fingers together, slow and thoughtfully. With the slightest hint of shyness he murmed a soft "Geralt, thank you."

"It's nothing.", he offered, equally humbled. What he meant to say was _'It's nothing, compared to what I'd do for you'_ , but it had died on his tongue. Jaskier could tell.

* * *

Jaskier had come to appreciate normality for what it was, found a different reason to smile each day simply because there was something wondrous in the mundane.

But it wouldn't last for long, because Geralt was — _after all_ — a selfish man, wasn't he?

* * *

A couple more days passed and Jaskier's very bad dream gradually turned into a flimsy afterthought in the back of his mind. A dull memory, devoid of any pain. What did it matter, anyhow? Wasn't it good enough that he was _here_ at this very moment? The bard concluded, that it was.

And Geralt eventually ran out of contracts in this particular town while Jaskier grew bored of gazing at the same, unimpressed faces each night. It had nothing more to offer for the two of them... or at least that's what they told themselves. Their entire _thing_ was making up excuses to keep travelling together, a refusal to break their habit against all odds.

Hands that weren't made for killing found their way into hands that were made for music. "You're gonna lose this ring.", Geralt announced matter-of-factly into the nape of Jaskier's neck. His stubble was bordering on too scratchy for comfort, but Jaskier didn't show it.

"I will not, you ruffian. Put some trust in me! Your rude accusations are misguided. I could never lose such a pretty thing! I admire it during all hours of the day."

"What about the map I entrusted you? Or the elven song book? Each one, priceless."

Jaskier was silenced for a moment. A rare victory. "But were they _pretty_?", he mused.

Geralt, now decidedly annoyed, went ahead and bit his shoulder through his thin, white shirt. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to leave bite marks. Jaskier released a single, helpless yap.

"You savage! You fiend!", he cursed as he smacked Geralt on the back. It hurt his palm more than it would hurt Geralt but that, too, he chose not to show. What Jaskier _did_ , however, show was, that he made zero efforts to wriggle himself free out Geralt's grip... Therefore Geralt took that as an invitation to bite him again. Another smack, petty chuckling and they parted ways so they could collect their respective belongings and prepare for a swift depature.

They wanted to leave tomorrow.

* * *

Her cabin was pragmatically arranged. Each potted flower served a purpose, every flask stood within reach and the numerous, lit candles were far enough apart from each other, as to not cause a fire hazard. She cherished this. After each customer, she'd begrundingly return the room to its original state because _someone_ would always move _something_ and it drove her mad. But today was her day off and she'd make the most of it. She would reorganize her bookshelf, go through her manuscripts, take a nice long bath...

_Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang._

Her eyes practically rolled into the back of her head when she registered the loud, furious knocks at her door.

"Come back tomorrow! I don't work today! There's another healer, not far from here!", she yelled, not caring to mask her annoyance.

"A normal healer won't do! I'm at my wits' end! It won't take long, I promise!"

She stared at the door, quizzingly. It could hardly be this urgent, could it? That witcher has single-handedly obliterated every single beast that's wreaked havoc within a mile of this land. She was a mage, for crying out loud, she was not gonna treat _paper cuts_. But it sounded important enough to pique her interest, though...

She threw a disappointed look at her cactus, as if it knew how to get rid of this emergency. She groaned once as she slipped into a more appropriate robe.

"I'm coming, hold on...", she shouted.

The mysterious man proceeded to extensively express his gratitude and was visibly taken aback when the door was opened halfway through his twentieth ' _thank you'_.

Her jaw promptly dropped.

The man smiled, politely, before his expression morphed into one of utter confusion. "W-Why are you staring at me like that...?"

"It's _you_!", she gasped. "The witcher's pet!"

Jaskier's cheeks reddened heavily in the blink of an eye. "I'm...? That's...! I'll have you know that I'm..."

"... _the most renounced and striking bard on this side of the continent._ I know. He told me.", she finished, with a cheeky smile. His bewilderment was clearly reaching new heights. "You don't remember me, do you? I'm Dola. You owe me one. I mean... _He_ does, but still."

"I'm sorry...? I don't... I don't think I understand...?", he stammered.

Dola grinned apologetically and folded her arms across her chest. "Easy, easy. I'll tell you the whole story and we'll have a good laugh. But, first of all: What brought you here?"

Jaskier's hands began to nervously clutch the hem of his red doublet. The tall man seemed to shrink under his own distress. "The witcher, Geralt... He's... I believe he's fallen ill? We were meant to leave today, you see, but I just couldn't get him out of bed. It's unnerving. He's so fatigued for no reason! It's never been like this!" Jaskier's voice had risen significantly but he didn't seem to notice in his frenzy. "I mean, it's probably nothing, but I'd still appreciate if you could come take a look at him. Ease my nerves, y'know?" He finished his plea with a hurried smile that failed to reach his eyes.

Dola furrowed her eyebrows, deep in thought. " _Witchers_ don't fall ill. People do."

Jaskier's twisting knuckles turned stark white. " _I know_! It's just...! Gods..." His barely contained panic was starting to bubble up.

Dola put an encouraging hand on his shoulder. "In for a penny, in for a pound. I'll help you, we'll get to the bottom of this. I assume, you're still at that same inn? _Dartmouth_?"

"Yes, Dartmouth.", Jaskier confirmed.

The mage nodded, knowingly. "I'll be there by noon. I must to gather my untensils and whatnot. There might be a book or two on mutants in my library."

Jaskier released his doublet and clasped his hands together, looking geniunely relieved for the first time ever since he's arrived. "I can't even begin to express how grateful I am! If you need me to help you collect your—"

" _No_ , I do not!", Dola sternly emphasized. "You'll make a mess! Just go back to your witcher and be patient."

The bard thanked her _again_ which was becoming unbearably tedious at this point and stepped off her doorstep. Dola watched him walk away and disappear behind street corner as she shut her door.

Her mind was racing when she began to look for her spell book. The bard's fear has rubbed off on her, to some degree — _made her antsy_. Dola had a hunch, of course, but prayed to all gods that it wasn't true. For Jaskier's sake.

* * *

Dola leaned back in her chair. The books at her feet were in complete disarray, flipped to various pages that spoke of curses, malintent and manipulation of chaotic origin. Beneath the books were scattered scriptures, knowledge on the so-called "freakish" anatomy of mutants which was _wildly_ derogatory, but — well, it still served its intended purpose.

Geralt was out cold. He looked much too exhausted for someone with his physique, really, it almost seemed as if he were blinking in and out of sleep. Jaskier, caring and loyal, sat by his side and occasionally brushed a stray lock out of his face when he turned his head. Dola couldn't help but see what Jaskier meant when he'd said that his hair looked like liquid platinum in daylight. The remark was made a couple of hours ago when the atmosphere in the room felt lighter. Now, both of them were met with the crushing weight of their powerlessness.

Dola bent over to pick up an empty flask. With their combined effort, they had gotten him to drink a potion that would help lighten the strain he was under. Geralt's heartbeat was painfully slow, even for a witcher — it was something that would easily go unnoticed, if Jaskier hadn't slept on his chest so very often. This was Dola's last resort to buy herself more time to think. The more passed, the clearer it became...

"I think, I owe you an explanation.", she said with a suddenness that startled Jaskier.

He tore his gaze away from the witcher to meet her gaze. The man looked calm, at first glance, but his twitching fingers gave him away. And those... Those _sad blue eyes_ , not unlike a glass of water, trembling at the force of an earth quake. "You said, you'd help him first. That means there is _nothing you can do_?", he asked, somberly, without his usual, flowery rhetoric.

Dola inhaled, sharply. "I was hoping this was unrelated. A simple curse. A physical anomaly. _But that's not it_. You must realize by now that your witcher has brought you to my cabin, a couple of days ago. And I, I... I turned him down, at first... _I had to._ " She pursued her lips. "Your blood was _anywhere_ but inside your body, Jaskier, that wound in your gut... was a death sentence. I told him so. _He wouldn't listen_."

Jaskier shuddered and wiped at his eyes with the hem of his sleeve. An ill-suited laughter escaped him and his shaky voice cracked, once or or twice. "He never does. His age made him stubborn." Dola wished she could stop his tears from falling.

"You were a goner.", she continued. "Not quite dead yet but _easily_ on the verge. And we mages, you see, are prohibited from meddling with death. Its force exceeds our capabilities. Everything comes at a price, bard — _to revive means to kill._ And it... it pains me. It really does. You don't know of all the grieving mothers, begging me to bring back their children... or... or the sad hermits with their dead pets who were their only source of comfort. As a mage I can't help them, _but as a healer I want to._ Yet, I couldn't help your witcher... At least, that's what I thought... _but_... Listen, witcher are not like us. Their lifespan exceeds ours. I've heard of it, of course... _their near-immortality_. He made me an offer that nobody else could, _namely_ , to take something without creating an imbalance. 300 crowns and 200 years of his life for yours."

Jaskier tried to blink away his tears, gather his thoughts but his mind went blank. The horror of what she'd said was slowly catching up with him and it was more than he could handle. He looked at Geralt for answers but the unconscious man could not defend himself. The witcher — _his_ witcher — who stood tall like a mountain, mind you, with all his moronic determination and stupid sense of justice was inable to retort, give a snarky remark or even shrug at him, at the very least. All of it... gone, except for his unmoving body, wasted on a poet who could count all of his good deeds on two hands.

"He did _what?_ ", Jaskier whimpered. "Why 200? How could you let that happen?", he demanded, becoming more hostile as he grew desperate. "Why not just five? Or one, even?" A heavy sob and many more tears. "Melitele knows, I'm not even deserving of _one_."

Dola nervously ran a hand through her hair. Jaskier was mirroring the agony his witcher had approached her with on the night that he was meant to die. "The number of years a human would offer could _never_ possibly match the colossal amount of energy it takes to cheat the forces of nature. Two centuries were _barely_ enough to give you your estimated 50 more years. It's... It's not like I thought, he'd die the very next day! You have to believe me. I thought, I'd shaven off a fragment of his life. _But he lied to me_. He said he could live thrice as long, that fool. I should have known, gods, I really should have known _better, but_..."

Jaskier was hunched over Geralt's frame, weeping uncontrollably into the shell that was left of his witcher. "No... no... _no_..."

The woman adverted her eyes, ashamed of what she'd one.

"Dola, _please_!", he wailed. The mage drew in a shaky breath and mustered all of her courage to meet his gaze. The sight of him simply broke her heart, the way he was clutching at Geralt's shirt, cupping his face, looking at him like he could wake up at any moment. She'd properly known Jaskier for barely half a day but — without a shadow of a doubt — it was almost like the world lost some of its colors when the cheery man cried so intensely. " _Please, please, please make it right._ Make it undone.", he wailed. " _You have to help me. I love him_. I really do. _He's everything. I can't let this be it."_ He bowed his head, weakly. "I love him..."

Dola's face softened with fondness. He really _did_ love him. "Jaskier. I can't make it undone... No one can, but... There is one thing I _can_ do. But it comes at a terrible cost." Jaskier straightened his back to look at her, wide-eyed. "I can give him back a splinter of what you've borrowed. _I can tell that it's not too late._ He's still breathing. It's not much, really, but it's all I can do. Balance out the redistribution of life force. But, I'm warning you — give this some thought. Currently, you've got around 50 more years to honor his legacy and create a future for yourself. Get your happily ever after, so to speak. That is... if the witcher dies today. But if you chose to reverse it, both of you will be left with... with only... Gods, I think the most I can give to each of you is _only one year_."

Jaskier tried for a wobbly smile. "You're putting in so much effort to fix this mess that I've created. I can't thank you enough."

Dola waved her hand dismissively. "I'm tired of your _thank yous_. In for a penny, in for a pound.", she repeated.

The bard, in all his suffering, found a moment to admire her sense of duty. He felt like he was bargaining with fate itself.

His eyes fell back on Geralt's face. If we were awake, he'd yell at him; No questions asked. He would never be able to understand how Jaskier could even _consider_ refusing his stupid, self-sacrificial gift — because, despite of all his silly brooding he was still unbelievably _narrow-minded_. Jaskier refused to celebrate his egotistical decision to leave him behind, to switch their fates so he wouldn't be the one carrying all that pain... _that selfish man_.

Jaskier briefly wondered what his life would be like if he accepted his 50 more years on this earth... If he would eventually die of old age with a million songs and trophies under his belt and two loving children by side in addition to a partner that he would _always love less_ than the memory of someone from the past... or if he'd _still_ die early, succumb to a plague or some bloodthirsty bandits.

Unpredictability was the single greatest gift, though. It gave meaning to every single breath.

Nothing could compare.

Jaskier sighed, so terribly worn-out from crying. His lips curled into a smile that carried all of his conflicting feelings. "He's gonna kill me when he finds out." Laughing it off felt somewhat cathartic, good for the soul.

Dola's frown deepend. There were plenty of things she had wanted to say but decided, that she was in no position to castigate someone as stubborn as the witcher's lover. "Are you sure you wanna do this?", she simply asked.

He nodded, firmly.

They could cheat death for one last time.

"Put your hand on his.", Dola instructed. She would kept her promise.

The mage stood up from her chair and began chanting in that ancient, foreign language that always sent shivers down his spine when he witnessed these acts of chaos. Her palms emitted a tender beam that reminded him of the sun — _perfectly fit for how she was restoring life_. The air was infused with something otherworldly, akin to bottled lighting. Once the spell was over, the light Dola had created dimmed and her hands fell back to her side. The room was still humming with the afterglow of her sorcery but it would eventually die down. The barely tangible traces of something that once was.

Jaskier looked at her, expectantly. "What do I owe you?"

She calmly started picking up her books and scriptures off the floor. "The witcher paid me. That was settled. _This..._ This was a favor."

Jaskier was about to open his mouth but Dola cut him off by magically sealing his lips. "Have I not told you that I find your frequent _thank yous_ absolutely irritating? You can thank me by..." She paused for a moment. "You can thank me by persuading the monster hunter not to kill me. He's gonna be mad at me for letting you have your way." She broke her little hex with a flick of her finger.

Jaskier grinned, good-willingly. "Rest assured, I can be persuasive."

The mage stuffed the last few flasks in her bag and lifted it off the floor. "I checked his pulse. He should wake up in a timely manner, I assume and — _oh_ , make sure he gets a lot of rest today. His body needs to adjust to my spell and recover from he strain."

"Alright.", Jaskier said, adapting a more serious tone. "How will I know when it's time?"

"That I can't say... but I'm sure you'll feel it. Remember: I gave you _one_ year, at most." Dola smiled at him, warmly. "Farewell."

"Yes, farewell.", Jaskier replied. As soon as he heard the mage close the door behind herself he added a loud _thank you_ and chuckled at her muffled groan.

A couple more hours passed in which Geralt regained his regular heartbeat. It was like music to his ears, better than the loudest applause and most articulate praise. Jaskier couldn't get enough of it, in fact. He rested his head on Geralt's chest, listened closely to the unwavering _thump thump thump_ with newfound appreciation. Suddenly, he felt Geralt's hand move. Jaskier was _beside_ himself with joy and eagerly pushed himself into a sitting position and _— yes,_ there it was, a pair of tired, golden eyes looking at him like he was the strangest thing he ever saw and Jaskier simultaneously wanted to cheer, cry and scream at the heavens. Geralt sighed.

( _Again_ , music to his ears).

"I shouldn't be here.", he remarked, accusingly, in his rumbling voice that the bard had so desperately yearned for.

And Jaskier let out a surprised, breathless laughter because — _what the hell?_ Geralt has been awake for approximately _twelve seconds_ and his very first impulse was to scold him. For some reason, it made his heart swell with adoration. "Neither should I.", he countered.

Jaskier's collectedness didn't last, of course, and something inside of him _broke_ so he began crying for the nth time that day because, apparently, he still had some tears left to shed. He looked Geralt right in the eye as they ran down his cheek. "You stupid _bastard_.", he hiccuped.

Geralt, spent and still visibly groggy, pulled his sleeve over his hand and wiped with it gingerly at Jaskier's face which made the bard _giggle._ He had grown to love that persistent practicality, forged by all those countless years on the road. Jaskier swatted at his hand, playfully, and _that's_ when Geralt saw it. He gently took the bard's right hand into his and inspected it closely. Then, he raised his eyebrow at Jaskier who, in return, avoided his gaze and scratched at his neck awkwardly.

"You were right about the ring... I lost it."

He braced himself for the incoming _'I told you so'_ and the mandatory smug look on Geralt's face but instead, he was confronted with a heartfelt " _Fuck_ the ring."

* * *

365 days.

300 days.

219 days.

98 days.

16 days.

1 day.

The gravitational pull felt twice as hard on that particular day. It made their limbs heavy, _impossibly heavy_.

They walked all the way to the clearing. By foot.

Geralt had given his beloved Roach away to a gentle, bright-eyed woman that lived on a farm. It was one of the hardest goodbyes he's ever had to say.

Now he was moving on to the next one.

They found themselves, once again, lying in the grass — side by side — not too far from the carcass of a tree on a warm but cloudly day that was was strikingly similar to the one on which Jaskier had declared the witcher his love _without actually using the word 'love'._ Geralt reminded him of that, snarkily, and Jaskier stuck out his tongue.

"Geralt, my _dearest_ Geralt, did you forget that you were equally afraid of a proper love confession?"

"I _showed_ you my love. The thing is: I don't flaunt my _skillful way with words_ like you do, bard."

Jaskier frowned at him, for a moment, before his annoyance eased. He even couldn't muster the strength to get fake angry over their banter anymore. Tiredness hung over the two men like a thick, dark veil and the bard was starting to _feel_ it. Geralt, too, but he chose not to show it. He knew, it'd scare Jaskier. Instead, he redirected his lover's attention to the nearby tree.

"We should have picked a better spot. That tree — or _what's left of it_ looks grotesque.", he commented, dryly.

Jaskier chuckled and inched a little closer towards Geralt until their noses were almost touching. " _Of course_ you would say that. The way _I_ see it is, that dead trees symbolize a kind of... fabricated immortality. After its demise it still serves _so_ many purposes, Geralt, such as, _well_ , providing a shelter and a resting place for wildlife or... nourishing insects that a bird will later eat. That's wonderful, is it not? By looking at it you can tell what it was like during the peak of its beauty. It exists in the past and in the present — thus, _always_." Geralt scoffed mildly at his speech. Jaskier let out another chuckle and rested his eyes for a moment.

The exhaustion was suffocating.

"Thank you for indulging me. You were probably thinking _'wow, how does he have so many thoughts on trees?'_ — well, my darling witcher, that comes with being a poet."

"I wasn't thinking that."

Jaskier opened his eyes to look at him, doubtingly. " _You were not?"_

Geralt pulled Jaskier closer to his chest and bent over to whisper the most guarded secret in the world in his ear. "I was thinking about how lucky I was that the last thing I get to hear is your voice."

The unspeakable extended a single hand toward towards the bard — again. He greeted it, kindly, like an old friend.

"I'm sorry it had to end this way. I should not have lied to you.", Geralt added, aware of how the world darkening in a sleep-like manner.

"Don't be sorry. You gave me the gift of a lifetime."

There was no one to mourn the two men when their mingled breaths stopped and their bodies went limp.

What was left of them would eventually become soil.

They could be found in the barely tangible traces of something that once _was_.

**Author's Note:**

> vsauce, michael here


End file.
